Impossible
by Grayson's Redoubt
Summary: Jedi are encouraged to love selflessly, to give of themselves for the greater good. They are not supposed to get attached, not supposed to get involved romantically with others-let alone another Jedi. [Series of one-shots and short stories relating to the mirialan Jedi Shamara Drayen, and the togruta Jedi Nirah Ternas]
1. Forbidden

It's not a Jedi thing, to be passionate.

 _Blood rushes through veins, driven by a suddenly beating heart. Heat suffuses her face, a knot tying in her stomach as soft hands run down her sides, stop at her hips, as fingertips trace tiny lines in the skin there, as hands touch every inch of her body._

It's not a Jedi thing, to love another singularly.

 _Warm breath touched her ear, whispered words slipping along. Promises of what was to come-promises of loving the other entirely in more than one sense of the word. Breath catches as a hand slowly dances its way up her body, across her sides, running over her shape._

It's not a Jedi thing, to get attached.

 _Body flushes dark with heat, with anticipation. Arms wrapped snugly around her waist, back to her lover. Feet can barely touch the floor and she finds herself whining deep in her throat, almost begging because the height difference makes every moment an agony. Keeps her from loving her partner the way her partner delights in tormenting her with._

But it's a human thing, to crave love, attachment, stability.

 _When they lie in bed, nothing but the sheets and bare skin, they pretend. Pretend they are not Jedi, they are not warriors. That they are no more than any other couple in the universe._

 _But the universe-the Force, fated this to them._


	2. One Misstep

Okay, you know how ops are supposed to go, right? Smooth and quick, get the job done and get the hell out.

Do you know how often this happens? Pretty much not at all. Goddammit.

"Someone please tell Nirah this is going to get ugly in a hurry." It was a vocalized complaint, the Jedi shadow having already begun reaching out through the Force to her partner.

 _Trouble. Not sure the volume yet, know it won't be pretty._

Communication was more bursts of emotion and images more than actual words, but mentally speaking them did get the point across rather well.

The answering burst was exhilaration and energy; Shamara was aware of Nirah's comfort in combat-a feral grace one could only hope to match.

Booted foot kicks the panel off the end of the air shaft - clang, clang - as the cover hits the duracrete floor. There's only so much once can do about the noise.

Lithe body slides out of the shaft, landing noiselessly in comparison. Gods above, the Sith were taking longer than she anticipated and it was making her nervous. This was a Lord's project; Shamara had expected at least their apprentice.

Careful steps carry her to the mainframe in the back off the room, a hand momentarily dipping into a belt pouch to extract a datadisk. The information held in this particular project had the potential to bring the Sith back to full power, and after what happened the last time; the events of the great galactic war... it was no surprise no one wanted a repeat.

It does take a moment of searching to locate a suitable port. _Could take a bit, love. You have things under control?_

Short answer; yes. Sheer confidence splashed back to the mirialan. All was good on the field, but when it was only blasters and manpower against a slightly-more-than-two-meters-armored togruta, well...

Shamara cracked a smile, tapping on the keyboard to bring the system display up.

Password... what was it? Ah.

Fingers tap again, keys depressing in rapid sequence. Blue light plays across dark green skin, and she smiles, beginning the data transfer with a handful of commands.

 _Could take a while, few more terabytes than I expected. Still good out there?_

An affirmative, that was good. Though she didn't like that sense of urgency lurking below. Shamara's brow furrows as she tries to make sense of the odd part. This is cut short as she finds herself propelled into the nearest wall, a hand at the back of her neck and - wince - elbow in the small of her back.

Whoever it was had a decent idea of locking down a Jedi. Shamara swiped back with her right arm - left being trapped between her and the wall and _fuck_ that hurts like _hell_ \- and encounters metal and cloth, a breastplate and robes too short to be Nirah and definitely too dark. Besides, Nirah, she could still sense out in the field.

Before she could make a move for one of the lightsabers at her sides, the Sith's other hand pins her wrist to the wall. _Goddammit_.

"Well. Someone was lurking where she shouldn't have been. Such a pity that you were caught."

Little prick, speaking like that with little guarantee of success.

"You assume," breathe, wince, "that this wasn't the intent."

"I believe the datadisk speaks otherwise." His voice a grating simper in her ear, "And your partner, is it? won't be a concern for much longer. Pity, really. Were togruta in high demand, her height would fetch an excellent price on the market. Though the Jedi training would be... an issue."

Eyes narrow, though the Sith could hardly see it, but before Shamara makes a move to fight free, her right arm is twisted behind her and pulled up; damn being so short.

"Ah, ah. Don't get any ideas. You're more valuable as a test subject than as a slave to be sold. You are, after all, tainted by darkness already."

He didn't need to finish his words for Shamara to pick up the rest; she was further in the Dark than her partner. The vital difference between a hunter and a killer.

Muscles tense under dark garments as the mirialan readied to struggle free, though belatedly, she realized that would be a bit difficult, given the delicate, but definite Force bound grip around her body.

She bit her tongue, refusing to say what was sitting on the tip of it.

Hands release her, and she staggers back as if waist deep in water, restricted by the application of Force against her body. A subtle tightness builds around her throat, reminding her of her situation (as if she needed the reminder).

Click, click, and her lightsabers vanish, presumably into the sleeves of the other, now that she could see him. This was no apprentice, she guessed. This was the master. Shit.

Her hands twitch, the shadow hoping she could at least retrieve the datadisk. Even that little movement was noticed.

"Now, we can't have you getting away with the data, can we. I'll have to do something about that."

Aw, hell.

Shamara felt her feet lift off the floor, and she swung both legs at the Sith (shit, forgot about that) in complete slow motion.

Her ears are ringing, and she can't even see as much as before-this is going great.

 _Get the hell out of here, Nirah. Now._

 _Hope she got it.._. were her last conscious thoughts.

...

There is something interesting about waking to the sounds of combat, especially of the type that seems decidedly won but not finished.

Metallic thuds echo, and the sound of someone's ribs being crushed by armor (a male's cry of agony, she noted with groggy satisfaction) and a cessation of chaos.

Gray boots approach the prone mirialan, and the wearer kneels.

Shamara blinks blearily, trying to clear her vision further.

"You know, you should be glad I didn't listen to you."

"Hmm." Careful, the smaller of the two eases to her feet. "Yeah, I think I am." Shamara bounces experimentally on her feet, working bloodflow back where it's supposed to go.

"'M'ere." A hand reaches up, grabbing the togruta by the collar and dragging her down to the mirialan's level.

Lips meet in the middle for a split second, then Shamara releases her partner. "Let's try to avoid this again?"

"I dunno- I think I liked the outcome. Minus, you know, losing your weapons and getting yourself almost as good as dead."

Shamara punches Nirah playfully. "Don't be that way."


	3. Home

She smelled like sweat and smoke, the lingering stink of ozone and tibanna gas. Her dark hair was dishevelled and stringy, hanging down over her eyes and face, though the look in her blue eyes was hard and challenging, a stark contrast to her state of being. Blood trickled from a cut in her forehead, but the mirialan Jedi didn't so much as acknowledge it.

The hunter in Nirah warned to stay aware, spoke of a lethal predator whose appearance belied abilities. The rest of Nirah, the _person_ she was.. recognized her lover, furious and exhausted, but alive and (for the most part) unharmed. Lightsabers leave orange hands, lazily arcing over to where Shamara stood-and the ragged figure springs into motion, strong legs propelling her into the air as her compact figure spins, hands scooping the weapons out of the air with practiced ease.

Boots hit the ground with a finality that spoke of Shamara, that spoke of the necessity of letting her do this alone. Two blue-black blades snap-hiss into life, one held reversely. A moment of shocked silence, and she spins into movement, taking that silence to her advantage.

Shamara moves like water, pliable and fluid, but striking hard. Where she struck, no one stood back up. People broke where she struck, and those strikes were precise, disabling.

Bodies fall faster than anyone could've guessed, pieces of blasters falling to the ground with their severed edges still glowing red-orange.

She stands still for a long moment, waiting, watching, daring-daring them to stand back up and challenge her again. Daring them to try to take her captive again. When none move, when they remain down out of fear, only then do her lightsabers' blades disappear, vanishing within cylindrical hilts.

Blood dripped from knuckles, from a gash on Shamara's forehead, from a split lip. Sweat stained the ragged garb in which the lightsaber hilts disappear into the clothing, the tiny mirialan crossing the space between them.

Before Nirah can think to react, Shamara is wrapping arms around the togruta's form, embracing the Jedi Knight. _It's good to be home._


	4. Betrayal

It's been a long few weeks (months, something reminded her at the very back of her mind). Blood has dried and flaked off various abrasions-bruises healed partway. Day to day, it's become the same; avoid the patrols as one stole to make it to the next planet. To the next city.

A six foot togruta is a bit hard to hide among the denizens of the galaxy-one stands out among those sharing her height, and one stands out among her own people. Not impossible, though.

Nirah hasn't seen another Jedi since the Order fell. Not even Shadow Drayen… Shamara.

Hood draped over her montrals, muffled her perception of the area, but it did the job it was meant to; hid her face. Her markings weren't the most distinctive, but there were few of her close clanmates loose in the galaxy, and none shared her other distinctive traits. Not even the Force-sensitivity.

Lucky her.

You know, usually families were pleased to hear that their kid was destined for the Jedi, destined for a greater life. And Nirah was certain hers had been just as pleased. But today? Today, knowing your kid had become a Jedi, and not knowing if they were dead or not… that had to tear at them. It had to hurt.

She knew she'd be mourning a child if she was in her parents' position.

Shaking her head, Nirah strode on, blue eyes keeping a sharp lookout on the nearby area. No use running into another stormtrooper patrol; she'd been hard pressed to keep the last one from looking like they'd located a Jedi (ex-Jedi). Instead, armor dented in with enough force to puncture in places, the patrol had been left with swift, merciful deaths.

Shamara would be proud of her.

Nirah wasn't so sure she was proud of the deaths of men, but in this time, this was kill or be killed. She was not yet ready to die.

Yet she knew this war had been lost a long time ago.

Staff in hand, she let her posture slump a little, leaning on the weapon she had once been proud to carry. Now it marked her as a criminal, a traitor to the state. As a fugitive to be executed on sight. She was no Padawan, had not been such for several years. She would not go quietly.

The people passed her by on the streets with nary a second glance, going about their business. For the majority, a regime change such as this was simply more rules, more regulations to follow, a different uniform in the streets. A few feared, a few rose in rebellion, and the latter were quickly quashed.

She could imagine this city as it was in the final days of the Republic. It wasn't on the front lines, wasn't war torn and scarred, but it had seen combat.

-Nirah recognised these streets. These alleys. She'd had to intercept what was practically a tiny army of battle droids as the Separatists marched them into the city. If she closed her eyes, she could recall what happened. Nirah had no desire to do such.

Lost in her recollections, her wanderings came to a stop, back leaning against a wall as her gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

"Funny, isn't it. We hadn't given up then, and now look where we are."

The voice jolted her back to the here and now, and there was something heartachingly familiar about the sound of it. The cadence was wrong-no, no, that wasn't…..

A tiny, lithe frame slides off a pile of crates, landing soundlessly. "I'm surprised you came back."

"I'm just passing through. Shae, what… what happened?"

There was nothing left of the air Shamara used to use, of the confident, almost cocky sway to her hips. It wasn't that deadly grace Nirah had become accustomed to seeing. This? This looked defeated.

"The Empire happened." She shrugged, stepping out where Nirah could actually see her.

The familiar patterns of her lover's tattoos were still here, she could count them without thinking. But there were changes, too-a ragged, still-healing scar ran the height of her face, narrowly missing an eye. Familiar dark hair had been hacked off, ragged strands floated around stone-cold features.

"You're never supposed to admit it when you give up." started the mirialan, a bitter twist to her lips, " but here we are, we're all just walking around pretending we still have a chance to fight the Empire. The Jedi are dead. The Republic died long before we did. We're just… we're waiting for our own to come calling."

"You've changed. And yet you're still kicking. Something tells me you haven't given up quite as fully as you claim to."


End file.
